Hit & Run
by pensandpaper13
Summary: !REVISED! As Eliot's demons begin to catch up with him, Mr. Quinn cashes in on that favour he's owed and enlists the team to help him save a missing European princess.
1. Chapter 1

**Story:** Hit & Run, a Leverage story

 **Author:** pensandpaper13

 **Rating:** M for mature themes, including sexual assault and violent subject matter

 **Author's Note:**

 _Dear Reader,_

 _No, you're not experiencing dejavu! This is a revised and edited version of a fic I had previously posted._

 _I decided it needed some work and instead of editing piece by piece, I thought it would be best to just upload it all fresh and shiny._

 _Thank you for taking time to read my ramblings and enjoy the story!_

 _\- Pens_

PROLOGUE

It was just past five on a dark Sunday morning. The chilly Boston air was wet and briny, and the snow was finally starting to melt around the edges of the rain-slicked trail. Eliot was alone as he ran through the Charles River Loop, the only sound the rhythm of his footsteps keeping time with the pounding of his heart. _Boom boom, boom boom_ ; a heavy drum inside him, tethering him to the earth.

Chapter 1

"A Problem"

Eliot Spencer was a brawny man in his mid-thirties, with long brown hair in a ponytail and keen blue eyes that surveyed the world with a certain cynical alertness. In plain running clothes, he could have been anyone; just another gym rat out for his morning run. He liked the anonymity. He liked the camouflage of a normal man, and that anyone who saw him wouldn't suspect a thing out of place - if they saw him at all.

 _Boom-boom, boom-boom_. In his mind's eye, a flash of barren desert overlay the snowy grass ahead. Hot and gritty air blew in his face, and he could feel the weight of a rifle in his hands.

 _Boom-boom, boom-boom_. The sound of the gravel under his sneakers mixed with the sickening crunch of broken bones.

Eliot slowed to a stop and bent over, panting. There was a buzzing in his pocket; irritated, he pulled out the small burner phone he kept. It was untraceable, unlisted - so why was he getting a call from a payphone in Mattapan?

Eliot pressed the answer button and put it to his ear. "Go."

" _Eliot?_ " said a rough male voice. Eliot recognized the atrocious Alabama accent immediately.

"Quinn," Eliot said. 'Quinn' was a mercenary whom Eliot once worked with over a year ago. He had also, upon their first meeting, broken several of Eliot's ribs.

Quinn's speech was slurred and wet, barely above a whisper. " _I think I need to cash in on that favour you owe me_."

Eliot hesitated, listening to Quinn's rattled breathing. It was a very distinctive sound, the breathing of a dying man.

"Where are you?"

* * *

Eliot climbed the steps of St. Mary's Church with a foreboding feeling in his gut. The morning fog had dissipated, allowing the buttery sunlight to stream in between the buildings on the garbage-strewn street. Long abandoned, the church's doors had been bolted shut until about a half hour ago. Eliot pushed them open and stepped quietly inside.

It was a familiar setting; stained glass windows, dark wooden pews, and the smell of dusty carpet and burning candles. A statue of the Virgin Mary presided over the scene, watching. _Judging_ , Eliot thought bitterly.

Quinn sat in the very last pew. He was a tall, lean man, roughly thirty years old and handsome, with long blond hair and hazel eyes - usually. He wore a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up, hiding his face in shadows, but when Eliot sat down beside him he could smell the blood. "Look at me," Eliot said, his voice hushed though he didn't know exactly why. Maybe it was the church.

Quinn raised a bloody, twitching hand and pushed his hood down slowly. He moved like everything hurt - and when Eliot saw his face, he knew why. All he could see was blood. It was matted in his hair, dried onto his skin, dripping from his mouth and oozing from his busted cheekbone. One of his eyes was swollen completely shut, while the other was bloodshot and dilated.

"God damn," was all Eliot could think of to say.

He half-carried Quinn to his car. He reeked of sweat, piss, and crank. Eliot put him in the backseat and closed the door, leaning against it as he pulled out his phone and hit a number on speed-dial.

"Nate, it's me..." he glanced over his shoulder at Quinn's bloody face. "I got a problem."

* * *

Eliot made it across town in record time, zooming through the streets with smooth expertise. Nate Ford, Eliot's boss, was waiting for him in the parking lot behind McRory's pub. Nate was a thin, drunken man in his forties with graying curly hair and a boyish face, which was now composed into a suspicious expression.

"Do you think this is the right choice?" he asked as Eliot reached into the backseat and dragged Quinn, slinging his arm around his shoulders.

"Mmph," grunted Quinn, "I can walk..." Fresh blood dripped from his lips, and his whole body was stiff and tense - even the smallest movement hurt like a bitch. He could barely put one foot in front of the other.

They rode the elevator in strained silence. Nate sized up Quinn out of the corner of his eye, half pitying and half suspicious. "Clean him up and then we'll talk."

Nate's apartment was a large space with a wall of television screens and a spiral staircase leading to Nate's bedroom and the facilities. The rest of the team was waiting there, their expressions varied between concerned and dubious.

"Oh my god," exclaimed Sophie Devereaux, her beautiful brown eyes widening. "Eliot...what _happened_ to him?"

Eliot ignored her and jerked his chin at Hardison. "Help me get him upstairs."

"We shouldn't be doing this, man," Alec Hardison warned, but he came around reluctantly and threw Quinn's other arm around his neck. He made a face at the smell. "Jeez, where'd you find him? In a dumpster?"

Nate's small bathroom was spectacularly clean, from the sparkling shower stall to the gleaming toilet bowl. They sat Quinn down on the toilet lid and he slumped forward, spitting blood onto the spotless tiles. "Ugh," he coughed.

"Hardison," Eliot said, "Go get the red bag from under the bar downstairs."

As Hardison left, Eliot took off Quinn's sweatshirt and tossed it onto the floor. His bare chest was riddled with burns and shallow cuts, and Eliot could feel several broken ribs as he probed along his torso. The bruises were deep, but there was no permanent damage. There were fresh needle marks on the inside of his arms, confirming what Eliot had suspected - whoever beat him had also doped him.

Eliot turned on the shower and helped Quinn into the stall. He tilted his face into the jet of hot water and exhaled a sigh of relief. He sank to his knees, letting the water stream against his back, circling red down the drain. There were scars on his skin - old scars. Scars from another life.

"I'll be right here," Eliot said, closing the door. He turned around and caught sight of himself in the mirror; his dark hair was sweaty, falling out of its ponytail, and his broad face was speckled with blood. He wet his hands under the tap and washed it off, turning away from the mirror. _Focus_ , he told himself. F _ocus on what's in front of you._

He didn't know why he was doing this - why he hadn't dumped Quinn at Boston General and called it even. He had enough shit to deal with, he didn't need to take on whatever Quinn had gotten himself into.

Eliot sighed. Here he was trying to think of a way to get out of helping a person in need, when all he'd been doing the last four years was making sure he _did_ help people. Whatever happened to making amends, huh Eliot? he thought.

 _You're the good guy now, boy._

You don't get to pick and choose the shit you get yourself muddled up in anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

HIT & RUN

Chapter 2

"Shiver"

* * *

"Hold still," Eliot grasped Quinn's jaw and smeared numbing gel onto the cut on his cheekbone.

Quinn had come out of the shower with a slightly clearer head, and now he was sitting on the toilet lid in a pair of Nate's sweatpants, holding a bag of frozen peas to his head with one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other. "I don't need no damn stitches," he complained thickly, as though his mouth was still trying to remember how to speak. 

"Well you're gettin' them anyway," Eliot retorted. Leaning in close, his deft fingers quickly sewed four neat stitches while Quinn stayed still as a statue, eyes closed. He had very long golden eyelashes, and a ton of faded freckles across his swollen nose and spattering his temples. Tattoos riddled his skin, some obvious home jobs and some so pale and faded they had to be done when he was a teenage. A crown adorned his shoulder, below it a date in Roman numerals, and on his other arm, just above his wrist, was an anchor with a very familiar insignia on it. He'd been a Navy SEAL. Eliot would have thought Marines with that cocky attitude of his. 

"So you gonna tell me what happened?" Eliot asked him as he cut the last stitch. 

"I was working." 

Eliot gave him a look. He sighed, took a sip from his glass and began, "This European cat..king of some dusty country...paid me upfront to pick up his daughter at boarding school and deliver her to her mama in Manhattan. I know what you're thinking -" Quinn suddenly sounded defiant as he glared at Eliot, "- I wasn't trafficking. Her daddy wanted someone off the books and I needed the cash." 

Admittedly, his first thought had been that Quinn was smuggling some foreign child bride across the border. It was a valid assumption...that's what guys like him did. What guys like them did. 

"I did the job, I got the kid into the US...but things turned to shit when we got to Manhattan." 

"And the kid?" Eliot handed Quinn an old t-shirt. 

"Marigold is safe where she is," Quinn mumbled, wincing as he pulled the t-shirt over his head, "Soon as I can see straight I'm goin' to get her." 

Eliot pressed his lips together. There had to be a kid involved. "Okay," he said finally, standing up. "I'll talk to Nate, see if we can figure out a plan." 

"Wait," Quinn got to his feet surprisingly fast and caught Eliot's arm. "I wasn't askin' for you to get involved with this. You paid your debt." 

"You can't do it alone," Eliot poked him in the ribs, making him flinch painfully. 

"I have to," Quinn's voice was suddenly vulnerable. Quickly he added, "I want to get paid." 

"You'll get your money," Eliot rolled his eyes, "This is what I do, Quinn. What my team does. You want Marigold alive, don't you?" 

Quinn tightened his jaw, resisting, but he had to relent. "Fine. But if anything happens to her I swear to god-" 

"Have you forgotten who I am?" Eliot smirked. "We'll get it done. Finish your drink...we got work to do."

* * *

"I don't trust him," Sophie declared, wrapping her cashmere sweater tighter around herself as she glanced in Quinn's direction. He sat gingerly on the sofa, trying to ignore Parker's unwavering stare. 

"You don't have to," Eliot countered in a low voice, "Trust _me_." 

Sophie's eyes softened. "You know I trust you, Eliot. But Quinn...I mean, he's _murdered_ people, Eliot -" 

"So have I." 

There was a brief flash of horror in her eyes. "I didn't mean..." she backed-tracked, "I just meant that...well, he's not like you. He's killed innocent people." 

Eliot looked her in the eye and said softly, "So have I." 

He regretted the words as soon as they passed his lips and he looked away, unable to make eye contact with her. She looked back at Quinn and said, "I just mean that Quinn is different. He's not trying to make amends. He's still in that life...look at his face, Eliot, look at the violence he's brought with him." 

Eliot shook his head. "That violence is with me every day," he said, and walked away from her, ending it. 

"I think your geek is speaking in tongues," Quinn said as Eliot sat down on the arm of the sofa. 

Hardison rolled his eyes. "I was _trying_ to explain my facial recognition software, but I guess _someone_ is too cro-mag to understand it." 

Eliot sighed. He couldn't deal with this today. "Hardison, speak English. Quinn, stop being an ass." 

Quinn muttered under his breath and shifted his position, wincing. "Those painkillers not kicked in yet?" Eliot asked. 

He shrugged dismissively. "I'm fine." 

Eliot watched Quinn carefully. He knew he was taking a risk trusting him. He wasn't even sure if he did trust him. Quinn was a loaded gun, lethal and damn unreliable. 

Hardison pulled up a page of mugshots and candids. "Any of these guys look familiar?" 

"All of 'em," Quinn said, "None of them were in the warehouse, though." 

"You're gonna have to narrow it down, Hardison," Eliot said. Hardison sighed dramatically and sat up straight in his chair. 

"Okay, let's try this. Can you describe any of them?" 

Quinn nodded. "Yeah, a few of them were Spanish. Maybe Cuban? And one had a British accent. You know, that shit-eating posh type. Probably ate paste and wet the bed as a kid." Quinn rubbed his good eye with the heel of his palm, looking like he wanted to put a boot through someone's skull. 

_"_ Hair colour? Eye colour? Tattoos, scars, piercings?" 

"Hardison," Eliot warned. 

"The one I want had grey hair," Quinn said distantly, "blue eyes, beard. Around forty-five. Six feet. Guys called him "boss" but he wasn't calling the shots." Quinn glanced at Eliot dully. "I'd say he was local, and locked up recently." 

Eliot nodded, but Hardison scoffed. "How do you know that?" 

Quinn's jaw twitched. "He hit like a guy who's been in a cage for awhile." 

Hardison tapped away on his keyboard, the soft click-click-click sound filling the quiet room. The photos on the screens vanished and were replaced with the profile of one Simon Pryce. Eliot recognized him vaguely; he showed up from the UK a few years ago and ran with a few crews, mostly small time stuff in the Boston area, but Eliot had never met him. 

"That him?" Eliot asked, looking at Quinn. He glanced briefly at the screen and away again, nodding. 

The apartment door opened and Nate staggered in. Eliot could smell the booze as soon as he saw him, as if the bloodshot eyes and inability to stand up straight wasn't indication enough that he'd just been down at the bar inhaling a bottle of Irish whiskey. 

"Does he need an IV drip or something?" Quinn muttered to Eliot, who bit back a smirk. 

"Glad you could finally join us," Sophie said to Nate in disapproval. He waved his hand and slumped onto a stool at the island. Sophie sighed and poured him a cup of coffee. 

"Hey Nate, we found the dude who beat the daylight outta Quinn," Hardison said, sounding far too gleeful about Quinn's circumstance. Eliot rolled his eyes. 

"That's great, Hardison." Nate said disinterestedly. Hardison continued, speaking to Eliot instead, "I can't find an address but I did find the place he hangs out at the most. Place called Shiver. He goes every night, has some wings, a little lager, and then has some fun with Miss Tootsie Pop." 

As he spoke he clicked through a series of candids, showing Pryce in front of a seedy downtown strip club. Hardison stopped at the photo of Pryce getting handsy with a rather large, rather masculine stripper wearing a bright neon wig. 

"My guess is you'll find him there tonight." Hardison smiled. 

Quinn got to his feet clumsily, purposely keeping his eyes off the screens. "Guess I better get miss Tootsie Pop on my good side, then." 

Eliot caught his elbow. "Not without me. Hardison, text me the address of that club." 

Quinn looked ready to protest, but instead he just pulled from Eliot's grasp and departed, slamming the door behind him. Eliot flexed his fingers, trying not to ball them into fists. 

* * *

'Shiver' was even less appealing in person than in photographs. Eliot and Quinn got out of the car and Quinn pulled his hood up, sucking in a breath at the strain of lifting his arm. 

"You sure you can do this?" Eliot muttered as he stepped up to the door, concealed beneath decades-old posters and grafiti that plastered the whole front of the building. "I can go in alone." 

"You just want Tootsie Pop all to yourself," Quinn said. Eliot followed him into the club, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the sudden darkness. They walked down a narrow, stinking hallway and through another door. The bouncer was standing behind it, and Eliot paid for himself and Quinn before going over to the bar. 

"You see her anywhere?" he murmured. There were girls everywhere, on the stage and hanging off old men in the booths, behind the bar, and flitting around the room with trays of drinks held high. 

"Over there," Quinn said, "Under the titties sign." 

Eliot looked, and sure enough there was her neon wig and long, muscular legs, hunching over a man underneath a large flickering sign that read 'titties! titties! titties!'. Classy. 

"Should we let her finish?" Eliot asked. Smirking, Quinn flagged down the bartender and said, "It's only polite." 

Quinn ordered a shot of tequila, but Eliot refused one of his own. "You shouldn't be drinkin' with all those pills in your system," he warned, but Quinn ignored him and downed his drink without batting an eyelash. 

When Tootsie Pop was finished, she came up to the bar and sat down with a huge sigh. "Gimme a double," she said in a deep, rumbling voice. Quinn gave Eliot a pointed look, and Eliot sighed before sliding up beside her and laying down a few bills. 

"I got this one," he said to the bartender. Tootsie glanced at him through thick fake lashes and smiled. 

"It's fifty for a dance," she said. 

"I'm not lookin' for a dance," Eliot replied, and glanced over his shoulder at Quinn. She followed his gaze and shook her head. 

"Sorry sweetie, I don't do threesomes." 

Eliot smirked. "I'm not lookin' for that, either. I was wondering if you could tell me about this man..." he slid a photograph of Pryce across the counter. She immediately looked up at the ceiling. 

"You cops?" she asked. 

"No, we're not cops. We're just trying to find our friend." 

"Yeah, right." Tootsie took another sip of her drink, still not looking at either Eliot or the photo. Quinn pulled up a stool on her other side and said, "Look, we're just lookin' to speak with him, okay?" 

She looked at him and her face softened just a little. She nodded at his face and inquired, "He do that?" 

Quinn nodded. She reached out and gently brushed her bedazzled fingertips along his bruises. "Alright," she said, "But you gotta let me give you a dance. I can't be seen talking to just anyone about my clients, y'know?" 

Eliot shelled out a fifty and she tucked it into her bra before taking Quinn by the hand, leading him over the black leather sofas. Eliot followed, sitting down warily on the arm. 

"You gotta understand," Tootsie said as she began her dance, "Simon's different than the other guys who come in here. He's sweet, or at least, he can be. He doesn't treat me like shit like most guys." 

"Yeah, I'm sure he's a real sweetheart," Eliot grunted. He watched Quinn's face as she gyrated against him. 

"He has a temper, that's all," Tootsie defended, "I don't know what he did to you guys or what you plan to do to him, but you need to know, he's a good guy on the inside." 

She turned around to face Quinn, pushing her breasts against his chest as she slid herself over his knee. "You guys promise not to hurt him too bad?" 

Eliot nodded. She bit her full, glossy lip and slid off Quinn's lap, finished with her handiwork. Quinn opened his eyes and adjusted himself discreetly before standing up. 

"He'll be here in about an hour," she said, "He usually comes by around six for the buffet. I take him to the back after that. You guys can wait there. But make it look like I didn't have anything to do with it, okay?" 

She started to leave, but Quinn got her wrist. He looked her in the eyes and said softly, "He may treat you good sometimes, honey, but I promise...he's not a good guy." 

They looked at each other for a long moment, and then she took Quinn's hand and held it between hers. "Maybe not. But there's worse out there. Way, way worse."


End file.
